


Too Fondly to be Fearful

by Palebluedot



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Domesticity, Fluff, Forehead Touching, M/M, Post-Series, Stargazing, Storytelling, local astronomy student takes darkness imagery and RUNS, the fandom hivemind post-reunion love shack, you bet your ASS i'm gonna use that tag for them always
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 03:24:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10688778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot
Summary: A hint of youthful mischief blooms in Thomas's crow's-feet as he brushes their toes together beneath the bedcovers. “Fancy a moment's fresh air?”James grins.Outside, the scent of the roses hangs heavy as perfume, mixes sweet with every breath of cool night breeze. Thomas settles next to him on the step, barefoot and smiling, his arm warm around James's waist.





	Too Fondly to be Fearful

**Author's Note:**

> _Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;_  
>  _I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night._  
>  ~Sarah Williams, "The Old Astronomer to His Pupil"

The moon does not shine the same as it once did. The waves like cut glass never could hold it for long, would always scatter its light from ripple to ripple, or send it back glinting to the air, and what it could not throw it would simply swallow whole. Nothing like now, the way it sticks to the landscape, blankets it like the London snowfalls of James's youth. Through their window, James sees the difference clearly in the stark shadow of their house, how it cuts cleanly through the whiteness coating the grass. In a few hours, the moon will begin to set, stream past the curtains, and cover them both in a second linen sheet.

Propped on one elbow, James looks down at Thomas, his hands folded under his head. The hair at his temples looks silver even in daylight now, and James pushes back the urge to smooth where sleep has mussed it – there'll be time for that come morning. He lowers himself down, and the sheets rustle.

“I'm not sleeping either, love,” comes a warm murmur from the other pillow. The moonlight dazzles off Thomas's eyes, diamond-sharp, and for a moment, James remembers with startling clarity why he once so long ago loved the sea. Then Thomas smiles up at him, aglow with a light not reflected, and the memory banishes itself willingly back to the depths and the dark. A hint of youthful mischief blooms in Thomas's crow's-feet as he brushes their toes together beneath the bedcovers. “Fancy a moment's fresh air?”

James grins.

Outside, the scent of the roses hangs heavy as perfume, mixes sweet with every breath of cool night breeze. Thomas settles next to him on the step, barefoot and smiling, his arm warm around James's waist. Building the porch had taken the better part of a summer, neither of them entirely sure how to go about it, but eventually stumbling upon something, if slightly lopsided, that didn't collapse under their weight. Once, James dropped the hammer on his foot. How Thomas had laughed at his following explosive demonstration of the sort of language one learns on the deck of a ship – how they both did. (In his defense, it had _fucking_ hurt.)

James could laugh now remembering how they'd had to haul themselves into their little house through the side window for those weeks when their front door was blocked by the project. Good God, his knees ache at the mere thought of repeating that stunt. But they have their porch now. They have their porch, and there they sit, and the crickets and roses fill the moon-silver stillness to the brim.

Beside him, Thomas shifts his weight, raises the arm not encircling James, and points skywards. “Vega,” he says, reverent and certain. He moves his finger in a clear line from the bright star to one dimmer, but still far from faint. “And Altair...and completing the triangle, Deneb.”

“You know their names?” James asks, gazing up at the three blue stars, now impossible to miss, together corralling a swath of the vast and imposing Milky Way.

“Mmm,” he nods, distant. “They were constant companions of mine, those long harvest nights.” James tenses, just for a heartbeat. Thomas told him once, years ago, their first summer here together, how he used to dread the season, for between the days and fields that never ended and the aches in his bones, he would sleep so little. As though sensing this, or else feeling the weight of those ghosts on his own mind, Thomas tightens his hold on James, nudges their ankles together. “I looked them up in the plantation's library one day. I found more than just their names. There's a legend – Chinese, I believe – of a great love between a weaver, Vega, and Altair, a cowherd.” When Thomas turns to James, the curl to the corner of his mouth is almost apologetic. “The weaver's mother didn't approve of their union, so with the terrible stroke of a hairpin, she threw a silver river between them, separating them forever.” And now that smile turns mysterious. “...Or so she thought.

“Our lovers are lucky,” Thomas continues, warming with each word, “for once a year, a flock of magpies, thousands strong, takes pity on them, and forms a bridge across the third star so that they might be together for a night.” When Thomas noses closer, rests his forehead on James's own, he eclipses every light in the sky. James breathes him in, strokes his cheek, and sees searing visions of a foaming river of stars choked to floods with glossy black feathers, a warning to any soul downstream who would dare try, just _try_ to send another bridge and drag him back across to the loveless shore. They'd have to drown him in the cold starlight first, and he would thrash to his last breath. “I would think of that story often, when I looked to the heavens,” Thomas tells him, eyes closed. “And I would pray for our bridge of magpies. I never expected one would come.”

Magpies, thinks James dimly, are rumored to be shameless thieves.

The sky is so often clear as diamond above the sea. How many nights, he wonders, did he plant his tired feet on a deck that rocked and cast his gaze high, not knowing that many miles away, a man with earth pressed into his fingerprints and a chest that ached in tandem with his did the same? But they didn't see the same sky. Thomas thought of romance and some grand design, while he –

“I still try to estimate our position whenever I catch sight of Polaris,” James confesses.

Thomas chuckles low in his throat, and when he opens his eyes, fond humor shines. “And how far north are we now, dearest one?”

James does not turn his head. Never entertains the thought. “Far enough,” he whispers hoarse, and pulls Thomas towards him that last unbearable inch. Rose petal lips on his own and gentle hands carding smooth through his long hair, the night air sweet like a balm. Dawn is not yet even a suggestion on the horizon; only the stars see them. Thomas smiles against his lips, then sighs at the touch of James's fingertips on his neck, his silver hair. He nuzzles the tip of his nose against James's cheek, and reaches for him in the dark once more.

Later, across the nested forms wrapped peaceful in their bed, the moonlight streams.

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno about y'all but I'm still reveling non-stop about the fact that ridiculous little wish fulfillment stories like this are TOTALLY CANON COMPLIANT. This is me celebrating that the only way I know how.
> 
> [The Weaver Girl and the Cowherd](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qixi_Festival) is a lovely, lovely story surrounding the stunning asterism of [The Summer Triangle](http://earthsky.org/?p=156768), I've not done it justice - I'm not sure what the likelihood of Thomas coming across an account of it in English in 1700s America is, but he's well-read so, uh, maybe? 
> 
> Magpies are not actually thieves, and also that misconception didn't become a thing until 1815 ([x](http://www.bbc.com/earth/story/20150408-the-truth-about-magpies)) but if we all agree to close our eyes to the truth on both fronts there something kind of beautiful happens so please forgive me
> 
> Historically the stars, especially Polaris, were used for navigation at sea, which is what James references here. ([x](http://thepirateempire.blogspot.com/2015/12/guided-by-star.html))
> 
> Comments are love!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [starlight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10793796) by [thenightpainter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenightpainter/pseuds/thenightpainter)




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